


Palm Song

by mellish



Category: Nabari no Ou
Genre: Angst, Apologies, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-17
Updated: 2009-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellish/pseuds/mellish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yoite/Miharu. Yoite feels guilty. Miharu doesn't know how to tell him it doesn't matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Palm Song

Their knees are touching in the dark. Miharu thinks it’s funny, how they’re poking each other involuntarily like that, almost as if they’re saying _I’m here. Don't worry_. Then suddenly there’s this one distended moment like a chord held too long on a guitar when Yoite bridges the gap between them, that singular span of arm, and takes Miharu’s hand. He brings it up close to his face like he’s looking at it, but his eyes are kinda glazed over, so he might not be. _Say something_ , Miharu tells himself, because otherwise the seconds will filter through and the skin will come off their bones, and he’ll have to retract his hand because he’s too naked, faced with himself, what’s happening, what isn’t.

Then Yoite says, "I did this, didn’t I?"

His finger, cold and unbearably tender, starts tracing over Miharu’s palm, skimming over the scar that runs across it. It has the shape of a star; like he held one and squeezed it while it burned. The flesh raised in parts, tough and leathery where the rest of him is still smooth. Soft. Yoite is unaware of the tingling sensation his movement leaves, doesn’t even seem to hear himself whispering, "I did this."

The pain cuts into Miharu again – that split-second move from the car to Miss Yae, his foremost thought a tangle between _he can’t kill me_ and _there’s no way I’m going to die, not now_. It wasn’t that he thought Yoite cared about him. He just didn’t think Yoite would destroy the Shinrabansho – not after they had already made an agreement. He stretched out one hand, screamed a silent _STOP!_ , and the force of Kira met with it, blasted through his skin so that his hair whipped back and blood splattered everywhere.

It hurt for days afterward. Even if he didn’t tell anyone, because he was tired of their worry. At night he would tuck his hand beneath his pillow and use the pressure to forget the pain; during baths he’d dunk it in ice water, first, to numb it.

Now he’s afraid of what else Yoite might say, and he’s tempted to close his palm, but he can’t, not while that slim finger still traces it. It’s the same one, Miharu realizes, that Yoite stretches out whenever he performs Kira. That same blade of death, just a few inches of skin and bone.

Yoite suddenly cups Miharu’s palm between both hands and lifts it, brings it to his lips, briefly. Then he moves it to his cheek. Holds it there for a long time, eyes closed, no change in rhythm, simply breathing against him. Miharu thinks Yoite’s skin feels like a cloth tied to a stick, fluttering in the wind, gone so easily.

"I’m sorry," Yoite says, and his voice is so brittle and empty that Miharu almost feels like he doesn’t deserve the apology. He lets his hand cradle Yoite’s chin of its own effort, lets his broken flesh match the soft contour of Yoite’s face. And he finds himself thinking that when everything’s over, this will remain. Like the scar on Yoite’s neck, a memory he can’t forget. How even on impermanent skin, always made new, always newly destroyed – some things remain. "I’m sorry," the other boy repeats, "I’m sorry, s- _sorry_ –"

Yoite is really terrible at holding tears back, or maybe he just doesn’t know he’s already crying. They stream down his face while another memory flows through Miharu, more painful than Kira bursting against his hand: _I don’t want to die_ , Yoite is whispering, and Miharu is burning, everything inside him turning to liquid, mercury, filling every inch of him until he is cold fire. _Help me. I don’t want to die._ The vision collects as a lump in his throat, hard to swallow, his tongue lifting with the weight of everything unsaid but thought of, dreamed of, wanted.

"Don’t cry, Yoite." _Not in front of me. Please. What am I supposed to do?_

The other boy says nothing, and simply shuts his eyes like he’s sighing. The tears continue to drip off his chin. Miharu folds his lips together to keep himself from saying anything else, thinking anything else, wanting - because it’s so tempting to destroy everything they’ve done. Miharu won’t, he knows he won’t, but sometimes it slips into his mind – _this is beyond what we wanted. We didn’t know anything then. What about this? What do we do with this?_

"Don’t cry, it – it doesn’t hurt anymore."

He puts both palms against Yoite’s face, holds that beautiful face up to the light, marvels at how much it breaks him apart.

"It never did."


End file.
